Darker Things
by pherede
Summary: "Please colud someone ship Thorin with my oc Lucy-Belle?" I love a good troll as much as the next kinkmeme addict, but then I also love to take bright things and make them dark, and I can't resist a good Mary Sue. (See? I can be funny too... as long as in the end everyone and everything is dead.)


A prompt on the Hobbit kink meme:

"Please colud someone ship Thorin with my oc Lucy-Belle  
she is half elf and half human, but Bilbo adopted her when she was a  
Baby and takes her with them  
she is 20 and has long curly golden hair and voilet eyes  
her skills include:arrows, sword fighting, riding horses, healing people with plants also she is smart and sings well  
and thorin loves her  
fill pls?"

Sure thing, sweetheart. Sure thing.

* * *

Gandalf says that he has had his eye on this burglar for a long time, and Thorin knows well enough to take the old wizard's advice; but when he stomps into Bag End where all his companions are feasting, he feels the hint of _something wrong_ before he even catches Gandalf's gaze- troubled, like the surface of a pool where some predator has trod, like the only clue the quarry is given that his doom crouches in the shadows.

Bilbo is a small wan thing, pale and drawn, too exhausted with his hollow eyes even to protest as the dwarves clean out his cupboard. Surely this cannot be the clever thief Gandalf promised? More like a cadaver than a burglar.

"This is not as it should be," mutters Gandalf, and with a tilt of his head he confirms Thorin's suspicions: they should leave, immediately, and never come back.

Then the air twists in his lungs; all the light in the room bends to a golden flickering shape, and Thorin's eyes are drawn irresistibly toward the apex, where there is a slim shape, golden curls spilling over white shoulders, a rosebud mouth too full to be quite innocent, deep-shaded eyes the color of a spring iris, violet with gold flecks at the pupil.

He cannot breathe; something in his mind is shifting, swirling like oil on water, like a half-heard whisper in the dark. He sees, though his eyes are fixed upon her, that their faded host rushes to her service, fawning over her and doting upon her as if she is the only thing he can imagine loving.

As she is, indeed, the only thing Thorin can imagine loving.

He is no inexperienced boy; he has tupped scores of maidens, humans and dwarves alike, and traded favors with warriors, and had hungry guilty encounters with stripling dwarf-lads newly risen to their age of majority. And he knows the lust of gold, remembers the way his grandfather's ring weighed upon his palm and filled his mind with whispers. But he has never known a desire like this.

He is prepared to throw himself facedown at her feet, and it does not occur to him to question _why_. He hears Gandalf's sorrowful loathing voice, some empty warning, and knows that the wizard does not serve his golden mistress, and he draws his sword without a thought. The other dwarves echo his motion, and Gandalf looks at them all with eyes full of horror and departs, is simply gone.

The better to leave them alone with her, their new queen.

"She is Lucy-Belle," breathes Bilbo. "I found her; she was a baby. She was so beautiful. She is twenty years old."

"Dwarves," says Lucy-Belle, and her voice is like honey and fire, crackling through Thorin's veins, searing him alive with arousal. "Strong, and long-lived; much stronger than hobbits. I shall have great use for you."

Thorin goes to her, kneels before her, not daring to touch, though tears stream down his face and he aches for her, he desires her so ardently. "I will gladly forsake the treasure of my fathers for you, mistress, my queen," he says. "You are more beautiful than any Arkenstone."

"Arkenstone," says Lucy-Belle, and there is a bell-tone in her voice of something dark and sweet. "I have heard this name, long ago and far away, as I rested; I would have it for my own."

"Whatever you desire," swears Thorin, prostrating himself; his companions make a choir of agreeing, adoring voices around them. "We will seek it for you, and bring it to you, if it lies in the claw of Smaug himself."

She reaches out a perfect hand and draws him up, and her smile is a knife. "I will accompany you, I think," she says, her voice lilting. "I have many skills." Thorin can see them all, can _taste_ them all in her words: the bow and arrow and the sword, the horse and rider, the axe and flail and all the grisly art of warfare, all the wisdom of uncountable ages, magic and lore, a mastery of leaf and flesh and song and word and healing and destruction dormant for long ages under the earth and only recently, only twenty years ago risen to walk once more under the sun.

"As my lady wishes," says Thorin, and in her sweet smile he sees his own future: his own long journey ever-adoring at her side, as his companions fall one by one uncared-for, and himself kneeling in sobbing worship as Lucy-Belle with her elvish eyes and her human mouth (all the parts she has assembled over centuries of passing travelers) places her foot upon the submissive neck of the worm Smaug and claims the deeps of Erebor for the seat of her ever-expanding kingdom.

It is all he has ever cared for, all he hopes for, worth all the discarded memories of home and family and sacrifice and duty. He reaches out in awestruck boldness to touch the gold incandescence of her curls, and if what his fingers feel is not soft hair but something darker and smoking-cold and coarse and crusted with gore, after all what do his fingers know?


End file.
